Trinity
by Haymitch-The-Hobo
Summary: Several months since Sherlock's suicide, Watson is still in a state of disbelief. Until he's called upon to investigate the murder of Sherlock's brother, Mycroft. Meanwhile, a mysterious figure has set out to clear Sherlock's name and a powerful crime syndicate is brewing a plot that endangers England and all its people. Can Watson save England or will he get killed in the process?
1. Prologue- The Letter

**This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so I hope you like it!**

**Disclaimer: I wish I owned Sherlock.**

* * *

_April 16__th__, 2013. 8:04 PM, Downtown London._

Mycroft Holmes sat alone in his office, a typed letter held within his shaking hands. The oak-paneled walls of the office shined with light reflected from the fire, which sent dark shadows stretching across the rich, red carpet.

Mycroft had just reread the letter for the umpteenth time. It had been sent to him a few days ago, but he had only just now opened it. The first time he read it, he couldn't believe it. So he read it a second time. Then a third. Again and again he had read it, but now he had finally snapped himself out of his daze and started to think about what to do. Yet he couldn't think of anything concrete at the moment.

His eyes drifted to the letter, which read:

_Mycroft,_

_I'm hurrying to write this, so I'll make it quick. _

_I'm sure you've heard of the Trinity Syndicate and what they've done in the past. Their current ambitions dwarf those exploits. The British government is entwined in a danger that I am not sure is stoppable._

_As I am sure you know, there are people like you and your brother. People of above average intelligence who can tell many things about a person in an instant. I have obtained a list of people, which includes these people and a few others, that are to be killed. For once I regret my own intelligence, as my name was included._

_Also, this plot greatly involves your brother, specifically the manipulation of him. As I assume you will be surprised to know, he is not dead. I do not know how he survived his fall from St. Bartholomew's Hospital, but I have seen him alive. I have not spoken to him, for I doubt that he would take kindly to my appearance. _

_I can't afford to show my face, so if you can find me, then I might give you more information. If you can't, then this letter is all you have to go on._

_Just one more piece of advice: Beware the 23__rd__._

_I'll be watching_

_The Shadow_

The Trinity Syndicate was a familiar name to Mycroft. It might have been less known than some other crime organizations, but it was just as deadly, if not more.

Mycroft had known about the existence of other people with superior intelligence, but he had never met anyone of the sort, excluding his brother.

When he read the paragraph about his brother, he felt both relief and anger. He was glad that his little brother was alive, but furious because his brother had supposedly killed himself without a word to his brother.

Lastly, the sender. The Shadow was a lethal assassin, a master of his craft, who worked for the Trinity. No one had ever heard his's voice or gotten a good look at him without getting killed. He could blend into any crowd and slipped through the darkness, quieter than a mouse, before killing his victims. That was where he got his name. The only known things about the Shadow were that he was six feet tall and blonde. It puzzled Mycroft as to why he would suddenly turn on the Trinity after working for them for so long.

So, as the hours passed, Mycroft sat alone in his office, pondering the letter. In fact, he was so preoccupied by the letter that he didn't notice that a gun was pointed at him until a bullet pierced his skull.

* * *

**And it ends with a cliffhanger. Until next time!**

**~Haymitch-The-Hobo**


	2. Chapter 1- Sidekick at Scotland Yard

**Hello, fellow Sherlockians! Here's chapter two!**

* * *

_April 17__th__, 2013. 11:32 AM, 221B Baker Street._

The rain pounded against the windows of 221B Baker Street as John Watson stared blankly at his computer, unable to think of what to write for his blog.

It had been several months since the death of his best friend and since then he was unable to climb out of his rut. At first he was devastated, close to depressed. After a month or so, the sadness had faded, a lasting numbness replacing it. He had almost completely stopped writing his blog and he was living more off of Mrs. Hudson's sympathy than anything else.

Since Sherlock's death, he hadn't moved a thing in the flat- or at least anything of Sherlock's. Mrs. Hudson kept nagging him to clean, but he couldn't make himself do it. He couldn't get rid of anything of Sherlock's. Well, except for the body parts in the refrigerator. Watson was glad that those were gone.

It wasn't that John Watson was weak; it was just that he didn't know what to do. When he returned from the war, he felt lost. Then he moved into 221B with Sherlock and he was always busy, running about and solving cases with his sociopathic friend. But now that Sherlock was gone, the lost feeling had returned and Watson hadn't the slightest idea about where he would go from where he was now.

Every day, Watson would go through his normal routine, but no matter how hard he tried to tune out the hints of Sherlock's previous existence, he couldn't. Sometimes he would find himself staring at the yellow smiley-face on the wall that Sherlock would shoot when he was bored and other times he would glance at Sherlock's scientific equipment sitting upon the kitchen table.

Watson stared at his computer for a number of minutes until he heard a surprising phrase from the television, which he had unintentionally left on. "…Sherlock Holmes might not have been a fraud." When Watson heard these words, he instantly rushed towards the television to listen.

A woman standing in front of St. Bartholomew's Hospital spoke, "This speculation is occurring due to an article published on The Sun's website. The article detailed one of Holmes' more famous cases, called 'A Study in Pink' by his former assistant, John Watson."

"The article contained an in-depth explanation of the steps Holmes might have taken to solve the case, along with photographic evidence to support each claim." Pictures of the pink phone, the word 'Rache' scratched into the floorboards of where the pink woman was found, and the bottle that contained the pills were all shown on the screen. There was also a section about the murderer, his backstory, and his motive." A picture of the murderer, the old taxi driver that Watson had shot, flashed onto the screen.

"The article was published anonymously as of 6AM this morning and the writer's identity is currently unknown. We'll report more information as soon as we get it, but for now, one question remains: Was Sherlock Holmes truly a fraud or was there a bigger plot in play?" The television then flashed to the weather reports.

For a moment, Watson sat there, dumbstruck. Who was trying to clear Sherlock's name? And why? Either way, Watson knew that there was one thing that he needed to do.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, Watson's cab was pulling into the parking lot of Scotland Yard. He surveyed the large building, anxiously tapping his fingers on the cab's windowsill. He needed to talk to a certain DI, and quickly.

Just then Detective Inspector Lestrade burst from the Scotland Yard building, Sally Donovan and Anderson in tow. Seeing as they were about to leave, Watson opened the door to his taxi, causing the driver to hit the brake.

With a shout of "I'll pay you later," Watson jumped out of the car, falling and rolling on the pavement. He quickly got up and ran towards the DI, who was climbing into a police car. "Lestrade, wait!"

Despite Watson's calls, Lestrade didn't respond. Watson ran faster, ignoring the taxi driver, who was letting lose a stream of curse words and waving his fist in Watson's direction. As Lestrade began to start the car, Watson positioned himself in front of it.

"What are you doing?" Lestrade asked, obviously impatient.

Watson panted, "Have you seen the news? Someone is trying to prove that Sherlock wasn't a fraud!"

Anderson, who was sitting in the passenger seat, remarked, "So it wasn't you?"

Watson could hear as Sally Donovan remarked under her breath, "I wouldn't expect anything less from the freak's sidekick." Watson glared at the both of them. After Sherlock's suicide, those two had laughed and made Sherlock jokes, saying that it was a good riddance.

Lestrade gave them both sharp looks, then turned to Watson. "John, we're in the middle of a very important case right now. It would be better if you didn't bother us at the moment."

"What case?" As Watson asked this, Donovan and Anderson exchanged glances and Lestrade frowned.

"I assure you, it's very important. Now if you would please move and let us leave-"

Watson wouldn't budge. For months people had thought that Sherlock was a fraud. Watson hadn't believed it and he was positive that Lestrade didn't want to. So he pressed on, needing to talk to Lestrade about the news report he saw. "What case? What I saw has to be more important!"

Lestrade scrunched his eyebrows and stayed silent for a moment. Then he said, "Mycroft was murdered last night. We're about to go and investigate the crime scene."

Watson's mouth dropped. Who had killed Mycroft? Watson knew that quite a few people would have wanted Mycroft dead because he worked for the government, but it was still a surprise to hear that he had actually been killed. "Could I come?" he asked.

Lestrade's frown grew into a scowl, as he was obviously thinking. Donovan laughed, "You're not actually thinking of letting him come, are you?"

Anderson sniggered, "Yeah, since the freak's not around anymore, there's no reason to bring his sidekick along."

"Shut your mouths," Lestrade snapped, then looked back to Watson. "Did you know Mycroft well?"

Watson answered, "A bit. He called on me to investigate a few things and he would make me meet with him behind Sherlock's back so he could see what his brother was up to."

"In that case, come on. No one seemed to know Mycroft well, but you're the closest thing we can find to a friend of his. You might be able to help us find out who killed him."

And with that, Watson launched himself into an adventure that would change his life, and possibly the entire world, forever.

* * *

**And that concludes this chapter!**

**~Haymitch-The-Hobo**


	3. Chapter 2- Escape and Capture

**Hello, and this is the third chapter.**

**Before I go onto the fanfic, I'd like to know something. Who came up the shipping of Mystrade? Have Mycroft and Lestrade even talked once in the entire series of Sherlock?**

* * *

_April 17__th__, 2013. 11:40 AM, Manchester._

Sherlock Holmes sat at a table in a small café, sipping on a coffee.

Since he had supposedly killed himself, he had been drifting around England, hopping from city to city and living in hotels. It was a nice, quiet life. Just the kind that Sherlock hated.

His brain was like a machine, its parts racing at an unusually fast speed. Cases were like oil for his brain. They kept it running smoothly, everything in check. They kept him sane.

So, while he had been traveling, he had "liberated" cold case files from multiple police departments, anonymously emailing the results of his cases to the police inspectors who hadn't been able to solve them. He had just solved his last case in Manchester and emailed the results, so he was going to take off soon. Maybe he would go to Liverpool. Or possibly Bath. Whichever train that pulled into the station first, he supposed.

"Would you like anything to eat, sir?" He looked up at the waitress standing before him. His brain instantly began to work, deducing this:

The young woman's makeup had been hastily applied and there were bags under her eyes, indicating that she hadn't had much sleep the night before and overslept. There was sadness in her eyes, signifying that she had lost someone close to her. In pen, there was a drawing of a heart on her wrist that contained the phrase CJ+RF. So she had lost a boyfriend. She wasn't wearing anything that could be a lover's gift, so either she broke up with him or they hadn't been in a relationship for a long time. Considering that her wrist mark was drawn in pen and the freshness of it showed that she had drawn it around two days ago, it was the latter. If she had been in a long term relationship, there would have been something more permanent, like a gift or tattoo. So, judging that her and her boyfriend hadn't gone out for very long and that she was so shaken up, Sherlock deduced that her boyfriend had broken up with her because she was obsessive.

Sherlock drank the rest of his coffee in one swig, stood up, and answered, "No, I'd rather not." He took a few steps towards the door, then turned back to the waitress. "Next time, be a little less obsessive when you're in a relationship. It'll most likely help." The waitress' mouth dropped. Before she could speak, he exited the café.

The streets of Manchester weren't crowded at his location, so he walked the streets silently, making observations about the few people that passed him. The teenage boy to his left accidentally impregnated his girlfriend. The woman in front of him was frustrated because she couldn't pay her rent. The postman across the street was divorcing his wife. And the person behind him had a gun pointed at Sherlock's back.

"Keep on walking," the man behind him ordered. He was a tall, burly man with sleeve tattoos of skulls and snakes stretching across his arms. He was so muscular and broad-chested that he resembled a hunk of beef more than an actual person.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, stopping. He knew that he should have brought his gun when he left the hotel.

The man behind him almost tripped over his fat feet trying to not crash into him. "We're just going to take a nice trip on the tube." The man prodded his back with the gun. "Now, go."

"Can I stop at my hotel to get my things? I'd rather not leave them behind."

"We already have them." So Beefy had accomplices.

"Did you get my laptop? There are some important files stored on it." Trick question. He didn't have a laptop.

"Of course. Now _go._" Sherlock did as the man said, resisting the urge to smile. He could tell that the man was a complete idiot, more brawn than brain. He could easily get away from the man by outsmarting him. He just needed the perfect opportunity.

The two of them walked for a few minutes, and then the opportunity came. A woman sprinted across the street, being chased by a group of people. This distracted Beefy for a moment. During that moment, Sherlock whipped around and kicked him in the groin. The man hunched over with a groan and he took his chance and turned, running into an alley.

He dashed through alleys and streets, zigzagging through Manchester. Beefy followed him at first, but eventually trailed behind. Once Sherlock was sure that he had lost him, he stopped and leaned against the wall of the alley to catch his breath.

Who had sent the man to chase him? He had said 'we.' That meant that either he had accomplices or someone had employed him. He was betting on the latter for a number of reasons.

First off, the man didn't seem like the kind that would start a mission to take out someone, especially Sherlock, who had never met the man. He seemed like the type of man that was used by others, doing their dirty work for a living. He had to have been employed. So who was his employer?

The first name that came to Sherlock's mind was Moriarty, whose death had also been faked. When he had supposedly killed himself, he had so quickly that Sherlock hadn't noticed that the gun was fake, or that the tag in his shirt was actually a packet of fake blood.

How did he know how he faked his death? Exactly one week after their supposed suicides, Moriarty had paid someone to give him a letter that detailed how Moriarty did it. The letter also stated that he would be watching and that he would be back.

Sherlock stopped leaning against the wall and shook his head to clear it. He would have plenty of time to think about this later. Right now, he had to get out of Manchester.

So he set off to find his way out of the alleys. But, as he was walking, he heard a footstep behind him. He turned around. He couldn't see anyone.

Cautiously, he continued to make his way out of the alleys. Then he heard another footstep. He stopped and looked over his shoulder. No one. The sound had come from around the corner of the building he was walking next to. Sherlock had two options of what to do. Keep walking and see what happens or confront the person following him and question them. He decided that the second choice would be more helpful for finding answers.

He crept towards the corner of the building and peeked around it. Nothing. Unluckily for him, the person following him had circled around the building and, before he could react, had covered his face with a rag that smelled of chloroform.

Sherlock struggled and writhed, but his attacker had put him in a headlock. So, after about half a minute of flailing, he fell unconscious.

* * *

When Sherlock woke up, he noticed several things. The first thing that he noticed was that he was in an abandoned building. The crumbling walls were made of dark gray stone. Scorch marks covered the walls and spider webs had been spun in all of the corners.

The second thing that he noticed was that his arms and chest were duct-taped to the chair that he was sitting in. A square-shaped metal table sat in front of him, looking severely out of place.

The third thing that he noticed was that someone was sitting at the other end of the table.

That someone was none other than Irene Adler.

* * *

**Ah, how I love cliffhangers.**

**~Haymitch-The-Hobo**


End file.
